Envy Engenders Spite

Euphemia Travers glanced at the clock behind the counter at Slug and Jiggers Apothecary in Diagon Alley. It was almost noon. And he had never been late yet. Noon on Friday was her favorite part of the week. It was when the handsome young wizard from Triple I came in to take their records from the past week. What had sold, what hadn’t sold, what was expired, what would expire, what they were out of stock of, what they were overstocked with.

She tapped her fingers against the counter she had just magically cleaned for the tenth time that day and then ran a hand through her frizzy auburn hair, trying in vain to get it to cooperate. Time couldn’t move fast enough. It never could. She’d worked there for a few years now, and everyday was the same. Well, except when a customer dropped something explosive. That was always fun.

The jars of frogs eyes were stacked right underneath the clock. They always seemed to laugh at her when she found herself glancing at the time. She hated frogs eyes.

Five minutes till noon. Maybe he’d come early today? She only saw him for a brief moment each week but he’d been coming for nearly a year now, and those moments added up. She knew the exact shade of his eyes — a dewy green, and the color of his hair — like warm caramel, melting before a fire. Merlin, he was a handsome lad. A bit younger than her, but not by much. Besides, he already had a well-paying, respectable job, and knew a thing or two about magic. She’d seen him use nonverbal spells every time he walked in and out — to get the door to open for him. Well-connected too — his father was high up in the Ministry. Merlin, he was so bloody perfect. . . if only he could spare her a second glance. . . .

Tap. Tap. Tap. How was she supposed to sit still? She twisted a curl of her wild hair around her finger and wished it could always look that smooth. Then released it and scowled as it puffed up again. The hands on the clock still couldn’t move fast enough. Perhaps she could try to talk to him a bit more today. Beyond the usual “we’re wiped out of lacewing flies and utterly swimming in bat spleen.” Perhaps, and this was a big perhaps, she could ask if he would like to go to the Leaky Cauldron after work. Well, maybe she should ask if he was seeing anybody first. Can’t just assume the wizard would like to go on a date with her. He was handsome and rich enough to be engaged to a pureblood witch who had much tamer hair.

Ring! The bell chimed and the door opened. Euphemia nearly fell off her stool at the counter near the register. Remembering to close her mouth, she forced herself to smile instead of grimacing. This was it, time to focus. 

“Hey, Travers,” his voice lingered through the empty shop. Nobody shopped for Potions ingredients at noon on Friday.

“Hi, Eric,” she greeted him as he strolled through the shop, black robes flicking around him. The triple-eyed logo of the company he worked for on the left side of his robes as always. She found herself staring at it as he approached until the gray eye winked at her and she tore her gaze away, tucking her hair behind her ear before quickly untucking it. 

“Slow day?” asked Eric Dawson, and she tensed. He sounded bored. Well, he always sounded bored when he showed up. She suspected this was the most boring part of his job.

“Yes, bloody slow,” she said, glancing at his green eyes. They darted around the shop before coming to rest on her. Her face felt warm as he looked her over.

“Got the reports?” he inquired, tapping his fingers against the counter, just as she had been doing before he arrived.

“Yes, here they are,” Euphemia reached down beneath the counter and retrieved the stack of parchment she diligently filled out every week.

“Anything to note?” he asked as she handed them over. Euphemia made sure not to brush his fingers with hers. She didn’t want to blush any further, it would be awfully embarrassing. And Eric Dawson was not someone whom she wanted to be embarrassed in front of. 

“Er, well, we’re nearly out of Siberian Snowderglass. . . so Mr. Jigger keeps raising the price of it. . . . ” she said and Dawson sighed.

“Yeah, it’s tricky getting anything out of the Soviet Union these days,” he said as though she already knew this. She did not.

“Oh, right, yes, of course,” Euphemia found herself blushing again. “Silly me.” Bollocks. Now she felt like a bloody idiot.

Eric rolled up the parchment and tucked it away into his robes. Euphemia straightened up — he was leaving. And she already felt like a complete dunderhead, so she may as well go for it all. If she messed up any further, she could just leave the country and never come back.

“Hey, er, Eric,” she twisted a few of her curls around her fingers again.

“Yeah?” he asked, “was there anything else?”

“Um, yes, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the Leaky for a drink later? If you don’t have any other, uh, engagements. . . .”

He stared at her for what felt like forever. Euphemia felt her cheeks grow warm again and she released her hair so it puffed up and hid part of her face. Idiot. She shouldn’t have asked. He checked his watch and her heart sank. She should have known — people like Eric Dawson didn’t have time for people like Euphemia Travers.

Finally, he shrugged, which was somehow more disappointing than if he had just said no. “I actually planned to head there right after this. Meeting a few of my mates, if you want to join.”

“Oh,” Euphemia fumbled for words. That was certainly not the response she had expected. Panicking, she blurted out her first thought. “I, um, actually have to stay here till close-”

He looked around the empty shop. “Why? Nobody’s here.”

“Well, Mr. Jigger wanted me to-”

Eric Dawson waved a hand through the air. “Jigger’s an old coot. You can always tell him that me or Abraxas Malfoy advised you to close early.”

“I can?” Her eyes widened, feeling a sudden appreciation for Triple I. Not only did they always make sure the apothecary was well-stocked with the freshest, highest quality ingredients, but now they were giving her a way to stick it to her cranky boss. 

“Yeah, of course,” he said with another shrug, “Jigger’s petrified we’ll tell the Ministry that he was selling mislabelled baneberries for a week straight and get him shut down.”

Euphemia dropped her gaze. “You found out about that?”

He laughed and patted his robes, where he had tucked the parchment. “Thanks to you.”

She murmured a small “you’re welcome” and he turned to head out of the shop.

“Invite’s still open,” he called before the door whooshed shut behind him. The second he vanished, Euphemia jumped up and ran all about the shop, closing up for the day. She secured the register, scribbled out a quick note to Jigger saying that Eric Dawson from Triple I had told her to close early for the day, sent the frogs eyes the bird, made sure every jar, barrel, and box was secure, and burst out of the shop and into Diagon Alley. The players on the poster of the English national team pasted on the door waved at her as she locked the door and lowered the shades. She tried to smooth her hair one last time, using the shop windows to see her reflection. Her wild curls did not want to listen, but she couldn’t bring herself to be upset about it. She could not believe her luck. Not only had Eric Dawson gotten her out of work early, but he’d invited her to the Leaky himself!

Heart thumping wildly, she practically skipped down Diagon Alley, waving a quick hello to Quinn Bulstrode as she passed the witch, who laughed at how thrilled she looked.

Euphemia slowed when she approached the Leaky Cauldron. Dawson’s words churned in her mind. He said he was meeting a few of his mates there — she wasn’t sure who his mates were, or how many he intended to meet. She knew of Adolphus Lestrange — he’d come into Slug and Jiggers on a few occasions — but Dawson had definitely said mates, which meant more than just one other person. . . .

But she was too far in to quit now. Trying one last time to make her unruly auburn curls a little less. . . chaotic. . .  she steeled herself, and stepped into the dim atmosphere of the Leaky. She blinked for a few moments as her eyes adjusted to the weak lighting, before anxiously looking around, trying to spot a glimpse of Eric Dawson’s caramel-colored hair. 

Her eyes finally landed on him in the far corner of the pub. He was sitting with a handful of wizards. She recognized Adolphus Lestrange first. Two others looked somewhat familiar. She had a suspicion the grinning blond was a Rosier, and the darker, conniving-looking one was a Nott. Euphemia had to swallow back her nervousness at seeing all these wizards. She had no idea all of Eric Dawson’s mates were so bloody attractive. There was an aura of dark confidence surrounding them, she couldn’t help but stare, and with a quick look around, noticed she was not alone in finding her eyes being inexplicably drawn to this group. There was just something about them that was almost. . . sinister.

There was one other wizard sitting among this group who appeared rather uncomfortable. He had jet-black hair that looked as though it had been gelled, and he laughed rather loudly at the jokes being told. The only quality he possessed to indicate he belonged to this group was his looks. Euphemia noted that this wizard was also downright attractive, despite his nervous demeanor.

“Oi!” she flinched when Dawson’s voice drifted through the pub. “Travers! You actually decided to come!”

Euphemia meekly approached the table, reminding herself that she was a Travers and that her aunt, Portia, had been married to the Minister of Magic himself. 

“Hello,” she greeted the table with a smile, trying not to blush under the curious gazes of all the good-looking wizards. She must have failed because Adolphus Lestrange snickered into his goblet.

“Potter, move over and make room for Travers,” said Dawson, and the nervous looking bloke quickly shuffled over. Euphemia took the seat and gave the wizard named Potter a smile — and was surprised to find that he turned a cherry-red color.

“Eric, since when do you invite girls to hang out with us?” asked the blond wizard who Euphemia believed was Rosier.

“She asked,” Dawson shrugged. Euphemia stared at a spot on the table, mortified that he had said this. “And we’re technically on business.”

“Oh,” she squeaked, now wanting nothing more than to melt into her seat. “Should I not have come, then?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Dawson assured her. “It’s business but it’s the fun kind.”

Euphemia did not know what he meant by this but decided not to ask. He sounded very sure of himself. 

“You can at least introduce the lass,” Adolphus Lestrange rolled his eyes and stuck a hand over the Potter boy. Euphemia carefully shook it. “I’m Adolphus Lestrange. I think we’ve met once — you work at Slug and Jiggers, right?”

“That’s right,” she said, trying not to crowd the wizard named Potter. “I’m Euphemia Travers.”

“Rosier,” the blond flung his hand over the table and she shook his next. “Evan Rosier — and this is Zacharias Nott,” he tilted his head to the cunning looking wizard beside him.

“Pleasure to meet you all,” she said after shaking their hands. She glanced at the last wizard beside her, who had responded to Potter but had remained silent during the introductions.

“Oh, this is Fleamont Potter,” said Dawson, and Fleamont awkwardly shoved his hand into hers for a quick handshake, muttering a quick hello. His hand was rather clammy and he pulled it away as soon as he could. For some reason, Euphemia found herself blushing.

“We’ve taken him out to see if his invention holds up,” Lestrange explained with a gesture at Fleamont Potter’s gelled hair. 

Evan Rosier sniggered and mumbled something into his goblet that sounded like, “and to see if he’s sucking up to the Malfoys or not.” Zacharias Nott elbowed him and Rosier spluttered and coughed, shooting a glare at Nott. 

Lumbering out of his seat, Rosier muttered, “I’ll get you a drink, Travers. . . because Eric’s too stupid to. . . .”

Now convinced her face was on fire, and trying to avoid looking at Eric Dawson, Euphemia glanced at Potter’s hair, thankful for a distraction. “Er, sorry, but his hair is his invention?”

“No,” Fleamont Potter spoke audibly for the first time, gesturing to a small container on the table between all the drinks. “It’s a lotion, really.”

“A — a lotion?”

“It apparently tamed his hair,” said Lestrange with a snort.

“It did,” said Potter, clearing his throat. “I’ve usually got awful, really terrible hair — this tames it. I call it Sleekeazy’s.”

The other boys laughed at the name and Rosier returned with a goblet of butterbeer for her.

“Tom wouldn’t let me order anymore Firewhiskey for our table,” he sheepishly explained, pushing the goblet towards her. She thanked him anyway and took a slow sip, enjoying the flavor before her eyes flew back to a flushed Fleamont Potter. She found his awkwardness a welcome relief among the other wizards, who all seemed so overbearingly confident with themselves it made her feel unworthy to sit with them. Even Eric Dawson was snickering under his breath with Adolphus Lestrange. And while all the wizards at the table could be described as attractive, Potter was the only one she would attach the word cute to. 

“It doesn’t look awful right now,” she pointed out his sleek-looking black hair.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Nott agreed, raising his goblet towards her.

“Because I’ve used some of this,” said Potter, tapping the container. “I demonstrated it earlier to Abraxas and Domitia Malfoy.”

“Sure, but none of us saw the demonstration,” said Lestrange. He was speaking to Potter but looking at Dawson. “As we’ve been telling you.”

When Rosier and Nott murmured their agreement on this, Potter hesitated, then unscrewed the cap of the container and peered inside. “Well, I might have enough for another, partial demonstration. . . but I’d need a volunteer-”

“Excellent!” Lestrange dropped his goblet onto the table. “I volunteer Eric!”

Dawson’s hand flew to his caramel curls, and Euphemia could not blame him for his aversion to this idea. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Why can’t I do it?” demanded Rosier.

Nott snorted, “are you mad? Quinn would kill you if you ruined your ‘luscious blond locks’.” 

Euphemia blinked in surprise at this. She was not sure how many Quinns existed but she had a feeling they were talking about Quinn Bulstrode — which meant that Rosier was the Evan that Quinn Bulstrode was always raving about when the girls occasionally got ice cream together on their breaks.

When this seemed to have a deep impact on Rosier, she knew she had assumed correctly. He looked distressed for a moment before using it as an opportunity to elbow Nott back. 

“You do it then!”

“No,” said Nott with a furious shake of his head, “Pam would kill me.”

“Which is why,” Lestrange said loudly, regaining the spotlight, “it makes the most sense for Eric to be the demonstration. He’s the only one who hasn’t got a girlfriend — or fiancée, in my case — who would be mad if we ruined our hair.”

“It won’t ruin your hair,” Potter began, but the others ignored him. Euphemia was silently thrilled to find out that Eric Dawson was single and apparently, available. 

“Oh, are you and Savanna engaged?” asked Rosier with immense sarcasm, “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder, Adolphus,” said Nott, “I was starting to forget. It’s been like twenty minutes since you last told us.”

“Ahem, did he remind you all that I’m going to be the best man?” Dawson asked with incredible arrogance. It took Euphemia by surprise, she had never heard him speak in such a tone.

“Nope, he definitely forgot that part,” said Rosier. 

“Yeah, don’t remember hearing anything about that,” said Nott.

Lestrange clapped his hands. “Eric should be the demonstration!”

Euphemia let out a small cough and raised her hand, feeling gutsy. “I wouldn’t mind. . . .” she ran a hand through her frizzy auburn curls. “Being the demonstration. . . .”

Fleamont Potter was staring at her in astonishment. The others glanced between themselves until a consensus seemed to have been reached.

“Alright then,” said Lestrange, sounding oddly amused. “Travers is willing, so go ahead, Potter. Show us what you’ve got.”

Potter looked nervous, but Euphemia pulled a few of her frizzy curls forward. 

“Um, how exactly does it work?” she asked, glancing at the container of lotion. 

“Well,” Potter wiped a palm over his forehead, “there’s a specific hand motion that you have to do. . . .”

“Oh, okay,” she said and held out her curls towards him. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he quickly snapped it shut and grabbed the container of lotion. He scooped some out and the whole table watched it quiver on his hand before he slowly picked up Euphemia’s auburn curls.

Euphemia felt her own cheeks grow warm as a pink tinge spread across Potter’s face. He carefully began rubbing the lotion into her curls in a circular fashion and she wondered if his hands always shook as much as they were now. She studied the smattering of freckles across his nose and the flecks of green in his hazel eyes and realized that they were nearly the same color as Eric Dawson’s eyes. She tore her gaze from Fleamont and peeked over at Eric Dawson to find him checking his watch. Disappointment flashed through her as she was reminded of her earlier thought — that someone like Eric Dawson would never have time for someone like her. 

A tugging on her hair drew her attention back to Potter.

“Sorry!” he quickly said, “did I — did I, er, hurt you?”

“No,” she smiled at him and almost giggled when he blushed even deeper. A round of snickers swept the table that then made them both blush.

“There,” Potter said, and Euphemia looked down. A few of her normally poofy curls were now smooth and sleek, flowing over his fingers like silk. He dropped them, she noted, rather reluctantly. 

“Wow,” she whispered, amazed by the potency of this lotion — this was how she wished her hair would look all the time. . . she peeked over at the empty container and wondered if Fleamont would consider selling her any.

Even Adolphus Lestrange couldn’t help himself. “Bloody hell,” he said, gaping at the change in Euphemia’s curls. The contrast between the few sleek curls and the rest of her frizzy hair was astounding. Shocked murmurs ran around the table; Euphemia noted with delight that even Dawson looked impressed, though this was dampered by her realization that he was probably more impressed with Potter’s invention than with her hair.

“I’m sold,” announced Rosier, raising his drink in Fleamont’s direction. Euphemia assumed this meant that Potter was not just “sucking up to the Malfoys.”

“What did the Malfoys tell you?” asked Nott, tapping on his nose. 

“That they’d consider it and get back to me,” said Potter. He sounded much more confident with their praises. “So, er, this was all a test, right? Like with Natalie earlier and all that?”

“Natalie?” the entire table echoed the name, making Euphemia’s head spin. She wasn’t sure who to look at, so she peered over at Eric Dawson. He had perked up, a grin on his face. 

“What did she do to you?” asked Dawson, obviously amused about something. He and Lestrange seemed to be kicking each other under the table while Nott and Rosier sniggered like they had a secret. Potter returned to looking uneasy at their reactions. Euphemia had to agree; the group’s behavior was unnerving. How bloody fit they all were made it even worse.

“Er, nothing,” said Potter. “I met her before seeing Abraxas and Domitia. . . I thought I’d been brought to the wrong room. . . .”

“You must’ve passed the test then,” Lestrange remarked in a tone that made Euphemia feel like she was an outsider to some prearranged scheme. She wondered why Dawson had even asked her to join them — if that had been planned too or if it was just a whim. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to actually take up the offer.

Turning to Potter, she gave him a smile, suddenly feeling like they were on the same team as the other wizards laughed. “So. . . um, are you selling this?” she gestured at her sleek curls. “What did you say you call it?”

“Sleekeazy’s,” Potter sounded appreciative. “Do you like it?”

“I think it’s brilliant,” she said and he immediately turned bright red for what had to be the umpteenth time. “I’d love to buy some.”

“Excellent,” he breathed, smiling brightly. “You’ll be my first customer, then.”